


workplace activities

by preromantics



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 05:38:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2180007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preromantics/pseuds/preromantics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Parrish almost -- almost misses Stiles’ sophomore year of college and the Great Work Inbox Ass Spam flirting debacle. He’s also almost to the point he can look back on that time fondly, but then he remembers the sheriff holding a freshly faxed freckled ass pic, asking at large, “Who is my son sexting?”</i>
</p><p>Or: the one where Stiles blows Parrish in the middle of the station on a holiday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	workplace activities

“You’re freaking out about Thanksgiving dinner again, aren’t you?” Stiles says.

“Get your ass off the desk, I just organized those files alphabetically,” Parrish says back, not exactly meeting Stiles’ stare.

Stiles slides off the desk and the two top files slide right off with him, papers scattering all over the floor. He bends over, exaggerating his bend in front of Parrish’s chair and slowly gathers the papers back up.

Parrish would pretend to be annoyed, but the past two months Stiles has been away doing his first year of grad school and he’s been so busy that they’ve barely had time for phone sex, let alone gratuitous pictures of Stiles’ ass. 

(Parrish almost -- almost misses Stiles’ sophomore year of college and the Great Work Inbox Ass Spam flirting debacle. He’s also almost to the point he can look back on that time fondly, but then he remembers the sheriff holding a freshly faxed freckled ass pic, asking at large, “Who is my son sexting?”

Stiles was horrified that no one coined the term ‘Saxing’ during that tense day at the office. He wrote a whole paper on the evolution of sending naked photos to other people for his term paper and got an A. 

Sheriff Stilinski was only slightly less impressed than Parrish.)

“Alright,” Parrish says, looking away from Stiles’ display and picking up a pen so he can pretend to work a little, “If you really want to know, I’m worried that I’ll burn the house down when I try to glaze the marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole.” 

Stiles stretches, shuffles Parrish’s reports back onto his desk and walks around to the back of Parrish’s chair. “Somehow you always end up naked when things burn, so that’s not exactly high on my list of worries.”

“Oh,” Parrish says, not even embarrassed when he accidentally draws it out a little as Stiles’ hands come down over his shoulders, “so you’re worried, too.” 

“Not at all,” Stiles says. “I have an immortal boyfriend. Literally nothing worries me.”

"That worries me," Parrish rolls his eyes, but presses up into the pressure of Stiles’ kneading hands. 

(They just fucked, at first. Until Stiles was commuting to Beacon Hills from school on the weekends with such regularity he actually had to spend the entire time hidden in Parrish’s apartment so his dad won’t suspect a pattern.

“I’d appreciate a heads up next time my son is in town,” Stilinski said, one morning eight months into the weekend sleepovers. 

Parrish choked on his dry poppy seed bagel and turned so red he thought he might actually burst into spontaneous flame, despite Lydia’s assurance that he couldn’t actually do that.

“I have some loan paperwork he really needs to look at and I know he’s avoiding it.”

After that, they stopped fucking. Parrish couldn’t sit at his desk across from the Sheriff’s office in good conscious knowing the way he kept having to shift in his non-ergonomic station issued desk chair was because the Sheriff’s son fucked him open for hours the night before, just to see how many times he could come.) 

Parrish gets lost in his head a little, legitimately worried about making a mess of the one dish he’s in charge of for Thanksgiving this year. He has never actually used a culinary blow torch on marshmallows before. He melted off the face-area of a murderous thing with too many teeth and no nose with a blowtorch over the summer, but he doesn’t think that counts as good practice. 

He swings back to reality when he realizes Stiles has his top two uniform buttons undone and is going for the third. 

“Not happening,” Parrish says, reaching up to grab Stiles’ wrists. 

“Oh, come on. You’re on desk and Roberts is out on lunch for at least another half hour. My dad is busy vacuuming the house and dusting things before everyone shows up, probably.”

“There are cameras, Stiles.”

“That no one looks at unless something vaguely non-human needs to be erased from the records.” Stiles twists his hands until Parrish no longer has him by the wrists, slipping their fingers together. 

“Still no,” Parrish says. 

“The only security camera in this room is at a complete right angle to your chair. I can blow you from under your desk, all you have to do is look occupied.”

“Jesus,” Parrish says. “You thought this out.”

Stiles squeezes his hands, rubs his nose against the side of Parrish’s neck. “I’ve had this vaguely planned ever since I first realized I wanted to blow someone, but yeah. Specifically this scenario, too.”

(Parrish told Stiles they had to stop -- worried for his job, worried for Stiles’ education, worried for what it would mean if either of them acknowledged how deep they really were after only a few months of sex. 

Stiles was mad about it, and not in the fun way where he sent badgering texts and faxes of his ass. Legitimately mad in a way that made Parrish feel like he was constantly about to come down with the flu.

And then Stiles went and got himself tied up in a sketchy warehouse that someone intended to burn to the ground and Parrish, coincidentally being the only mountain ash and fire immune person around, had to go and drag his ass out of there. 

After, they had an argument in the parking lot, Parrish naked and covered in ash and Stiles in slightly smoking clothing, with multiple witnesses including the Sheriff. 

“So help me Stiles if you set this fire and tied yourself up just to get my idiot deputy to rescue you,” Stilinski said. 

Stiles had stared at him defiantly and Parrish stood torn between anger and an overwhelming desire to get Stiles just as naked as he currently was.

The next night they went on their first date.)

“C’mon,” Stiles says. He’s leaning so close Parrish can feel the brush of his lips around each word. “I’m only home for three days and tonight we’re going to go home exhausted and poisoned by Tryptophan and carbs and that weird home brew Scott won’t shut up about making in his basement.”

It’s the two months of Stiles being away and the thought of Stiles’ mouth that makes him give in. The slightly wet bottom lip Stiles is dragging up his jawline, the tease of his tongue following, reminding Parrish in technicolor detail of every reason he’s ever had to say yes.

“Fine,” Parrish says. He tries to sound like it’s a hardship, but Stiles spins his chair around and Parrish ends the word caught up in Stiles’ mouth. 

“Fuck, yes,” Stiles says, already throaty and too much for Parrish to handle. They’ve fooled around in the precinct before, but never on the main floor. Never in such open space, with so many places for people to unexpectedly walk in. 

Parrish is nowhere near the exhibitionist that Stiles pretends he isn’t, but he’s already half hard in his khakis when Stiles spins the chair back around and sinks to his knees under Parrish’s desk. 

“Ow, fuck.” He hits his head trying to fold himself into the space and Parrish laughs at him, patting his head and messing up his hair. 

Stiles shifts for a full minute, his thinking face on, before he settles crosslegged on the floor under Parrish’s desk instead of on his knees. He hooks his hands behind Parrish’s calves and pulls him and his ancient squeaking roll-y chair forward. 

“Spread ‘em,” Stiles says, sliding his hands up and down Parrish’s inner thighs.

Parrish runs every morning with Scott and Derek, but there’s still a little bit of a burn when he widens his legs enough to fit close enough to Stiles that the desk completely covers them. He hasn’t had much time to keep up on flexibility, with Stiles away at school.

They had a very flexible summer. 

Stiles unbuttoning the top of his pants is a good release of pressure that Parrish had barely noticed building. His zip coming down is too loud in the quiet, holiday-shift office space. With Roberts out on lunch there’s only someone at the front desk, a whole hallway away, but Parrish swears she must hear the zipper.

“Relax,” Stiles says. “Rosie is way deep in her romance novel right now. It’s legitimately got Fabio on the cover, which is kind of amazing.”

“Shut up,” Parrish says. 

He helps shift so Stiles can get him all the way out of his briefs, can barely look when Stiles gets his hand wrapped all the way around his shaft, pulling his dick away from where he’s hard against his belly and toward his mouth instead. 

“We really should not be doing this,” Parrish says, entirely to himself. He’s listening intently to the sounds of the station, looking down the hallway leading out of the office.

The only thing he can hear is the wet smack of Stiles spitting over the head of his dick and the low, satisfied groan Stiles makes when he takes the first inch into his mouth.

Parrish’s hands go to the edge of his desk so he can grip at the wood while Stiles licks slick and deliberately messy from the head of his cock to where he’s pushing out of his briefs, getting the cotton sticky and hot as he mouths there. 

Parrish makes the mistake of staring across his desk and into the Sheriff’s office, which makes him drop his gaze almost immediately and he ends up with a full view of Stiles going down on him. 

With the way Stiles is holding his cock, neck strained so he can get as much of Parrish between his lips as possible without coming out from under the desk.

“Fuck, Stiles,” Parrish manages, unable to look away.

Stiles grins up at him for a second, wicked, twisting his wrist and thumbing under Parrish’s cock, following the movement with his mouth.

“Missed this,” Stiles says, pulling off and tightening his hand, “Missed you.” 

“Same,” Parrish agrees, “fucking, yeah.”

“Romantic,” Stiles says, with a little twist of his mouth and nod of his head. 

Parrish runs a hand through Stiles’ hair, tries to make it tender enough to convey what he’s actually feeling in places not connected to his cock, but he mostly just ends up pressing Stiles’ head down further when Stiles takes him all the way back into his mouth in one go. 

He can feel himself on the edge of coming for longer than usual, hyper aware of every single place Stiles is touching him, of every slick messy sound and hitched inhale of breath coming from both of them. 

When he comes he bows over, taking Stiles’ head in both his hands and keeping him in place, bent over almost enough that his head touches the top of his desk. 

They had sex last night when Stiles got in, 2am after Parrish pulled a double and it was good, it was fantastic, the build up of two months. 

This is every sharp edge of why they work so well together in one go, even better than the night before. When Parrish straightens back up, Stiles drags his mouth over Parrish’s clothed thigh and whines, low and deep in his throat. 

Parrish drags him up, uncaring of the camera in the room or anyone walking in. He kisses him, slick and dirty and sharp on his tongue as he presses Stiles up onto the desk, nicely alphabetized files sliding off onto the floor. 

“You’re so fucking good,” Parrish says, biting down a little, twisting one hand around Stiles’ neck to get the angle right. 

“Fucking touch me,” Stiles says, grabbing blinding for Parrish’s other hand and pressing Parrish’s palm over where Stiles’s dick is straining up against his fly.

“Yeah,” Parrish says, repeating it nonsensically as he gets Stiles’ cock out. He’s hard and red and so fucking slick at the top that Parrish mirrors Stiles’ groan as he slides wetness all the way down with his thumb. 

“Not gonna last,” Stiles warns. 

Parrish sinks down to his knees, striping Stiles’ cock down with his hand hard and fast, so fucking slick with precome. Parrish almost forgot how Stiles could get, and he acknowledges how long Stiles must have been hard, thinking about this. Tucked in his jeans coming down to the station, knowing Parrish was mostly alone, planning this out.

Stiles is so fucking good at plans. 

Stiles knocks Parrish’s hand away, squeezing the base of his dick and then stroking himself, sliding forward on the desk so he can angle the head of his cock onto Parrish’s bottom lip.

“Don’t want to make a mess,” Stiles says, like he even needs to ask. 

“Do it,” Parrish says, opening his mouth so Stiles can shallowly fuck in between his lips until he comes. 

When he comes they both groan, probably loud enough for Rosie at the front desk to hear, but Parrish can’t bring himself to care in the slightest. He just swallows Stiles down further and presses his lips together lightly around the head through the aftershocks. 

It takes them long enough to clean up themselves and the desk that Roberts comes in and cheerfully relieves Parrish from duty. He doesn’t even blink at Stiles’ presence, even though Parrish feels like any respectable deputy would be able to tell two people just got off in the room. He’s all too aware. 

Parrish is relieved when they walk out the back doors into the parking lot, but they run into Sheriff Stilinski as they’re walking toward Stiles’ jeep.

Just a few minutes difference in timing and Thanksgiving dinner could have been 1,000 times more awkward than usual. Parrish doesn’t panic.

“Hey, you’re supposed to be cleaning the house,” Stiles says.

Stilinski levels him with a look. “You were supposed to be picking up another can of cranberry sauce. An hour ago.”

“Got it covered. What are you doing?”

“Oh,” Stilinski says, “I just thought I’d do one last security sweep before I officially took the rest of the day off. I’ll be home right after you guys.”

“Security?” Parrish asks, trying to keep his voice level, “Like the tapes?”

Stiles steps on his foot a little. 

Stilinski makes a face. “God, no, we never look at those. That would take hours.”

“That’s great, dad,” Stiles says. “Don’t want to miss out on the football and the marshmallow casserole.”

The sheriff raises an eyebrow at them both. “I don’t want to know what’s on those tapes, do I?”

“The game starts in like, 30 minutes, which means you’ll miss out on prime couch real estate if you don’t get back soon,” Stiles says, overly cheerful. 

“Right,” Stilinski says.

“We’re breaking in tonight and deleting those tapes,” Stiles whispers, once his dad is far enough away. 

“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve suggested,” Parrish says.

**Author's Note:**

> Heeeeey, fandom! I have not written since Yuletide, but Parrish is my fav and I'm still in love with Teen Wolf even when I hate it. I originally sat down to work on some Stiles/Parrish/Lydia and then I realized I needed to get some porn out of my system first.


End file.
